


Johniarty Prompts

by Iolre



Series: The Minor Key Prompts [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, John Snaps, Killerlock, M/M, Revenge, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various Johniarty drabbles I've written and posted to my prompts tumblr. Various situations, from fluff to crack to smut to anything I'm prompted with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Taken Care Of

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all.
> 
> This is going to be a compilation of the Johniarty prompts given to me at my [prompts tumblr](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com) where I take prompts for minor pairings. Feel free to shoot me one if you want to see more Johniarty (or any other 'rare' pairing)!
> 
> Prompt: Johniarty — John got hurt so obviously that means Jim is going to hurt them right back. [Protective Jim + H/C is my kryptonite I'm sorry]

The sound of the door opening roused John out of his medicated sleep, and he struggled to lift his head off of the sofa. He blinked blearily as the sound of Jim’s footfalls came closer. Propping himself up on his elbows, he watched as his boyfriend shed his jacket and tossed it on the floor. That was rare in itself, for Jim was always meticulous about his suits. Next off was the shirt, and then trousers, until Jim stood just in his pants.

John watched as Jim walked into their bedroom, whistling a contented tune to himself. Allowing himself to flop back onto the couch, he stared at the ceiling. John had came home from a mission with an ugly gash on his leg and a shallow wound on his abdomen. Several stitches and two capsules of a strong pain medication later, Jim had stuck him on the couch and disappeared.

Jim emerged from the bedroom dressed in a pair of John’s pyjama bottoms and a loose cotton shirt. He looked rather ridiculous, the trousers cinched tightly to make up for John’s stockier frame. Carefully he lifted John’s head, sliding onto the couch and letting go of John’s head so it landed on his legs. “Hello, Johnny boy,” Jim said evenly.

Blinking up at him, John shifted slightly so that he was comfortable. His gaze met Jim’s, and John’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got some blood on your face.”

Jim cocked his head to the side, speculating, amused. “Messy.”

“What exactly were you doing?” John reached up a thumb and carefully tried to rub out the spatters of blood on Jim’s cheek.

“They hurt you.” Jim smiled, showing perfect, white teeth. “That’s not okay.”

“So you taught them a lesson.” He gave up, now that the red mark was smeared over Jim’s perfect, pale skin. It was almost sexy, the way the colours clashed. Or would have been, if John wasn’t busy being high on pain medicine. It gave the world a nice, fuzzy glow.

“I needed to teach them that you can’t hurt what is mine.” Jim leaned down and kissed John’s forehead. “Only I can hurt you.”

“And preferably only in bed,” John pointed out.

“No promises.” Jim threaded a hand into John’s short blond hair, stroking lightly with his fingernails.

“Right,” John mused, distracted by the comforting sensation of Jim’s hand in his hair. “We might have to talk about that.”

The hand in John’s hair tightened and tipped his head back, allowing Jim easy access to the other man’s lips. He kissed him slow and lazy, allowing for John’s weakened condition. Normally when they came together it was hot and violent, teeth and tongues clashing in a fight for dominance. John rather liked it like this, liked that Jim gave in and on rare occasions demonstrated that he actually did care about John as something other than a bodyguard who was convenient for an occasional, kinky shag.

Finally Jim pulled back, pupils blown, breathing quickly. There was a delicate flush on his pale cheeks that had John’s heart thudding in his chest. Then Jim did - whatever Jim did, when he controlled himself. It was fascinating to watch, how Jim eliminated all signs of his humanity, all signs of his emotions. He closed his eyes, and there was a stillness about him. When he opened them, his pupils had shrank, and he seemed calmer. John smirked, inwardly pleased that Jim couldn’t completely eliminate the signs of his arousal - his pupils were still larger than normal, his cheeks were still faintly pink, and he was breathing slightly faster than his natural average.

“If you’re not healthy by the end of the week, I’m leaving you behind.” Jim flashed his brilliant smile at John and then kissed him on the cheek. Then he stood and sauntered in the bedroom. “Hurry up, Johnny boy.”

John rolled his eyes and forced himself to stand and follow after his bossy, bossy boyfriend.


	2. Just Keep Swimming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ANY SHIP w/ CUDDLING FOR WARMTH PLEASE (I'm screaming because I'm excited)
> 
> I promised Johniarty, and then it turned kind of...cracky. Whoops.
> 
> (We're going to agree to ignore how utterly silly this is. Please and thank you.)

“I’m cold,” came the petulant voice belonging to the small man snuggled against John’s side.

“The heater’s out,” John said, bemused as he stroked a hand up and down his partner’s back. Jim growled and nipped at the soft skin of his throat. “Watch it,” John protested, and Jim bit him again.

“Fix it,” the consulting criminal demanded.

“Moran said someone will be in first thing tomorrow,” John reminded him. He was rewarded with a harsher bite. “Fuck it, Jim, stop biting me.”

“You’re lucky I don’t have a gun,” Jim muttered, curling closer. “I’d shoot your head off.”

“No you wouldn’t.” John shook his head, pushing the damp hair out of Jim’s face. “It would make a mess on your walls, and you would hate to have them re-painted.”

“Messy.” Jim wrinkled his nose in disgust. John leaned down and pressed a kiss to his hair. The consulting criminal was quite fussy when he was sick, even worse when the heat went out in addition to his illness. Moran, his second-in-command, had scattered from their shared flat the moment Jim had started sniffling, telling John that he was on his own. “How about next time I shoot you, you don’t bleed.”

“I’ll inform my arteries promptly,” John muttered. Jim growled his agreement and shifted so that he was half on top of John, ensuring that his personal doctor couldn’t go anywhere. “You do realize I can take you in a fight, right? And that I can’t actually ensure that I don’t bleed?”

“I should fire you.” Jim sighed as if he had the hardest life on their side of the pond.

“If you did, who would put on Finding Nemo for you when you were sick?” John said teasingly. He swore when Jim jabbed him in the ribs. “Bastard.” Jim hummed, pleased, and nibbled on the skin of John’s neck. “You’re not a vampire. Behave yourself.”

A hand snuck down to cup John’s cock and he swatted it away. “Damn it Jim. No.” He felt like he was talking to a particularly frisky, easily-distracted toddler. “You’re sick. You need to rest.” John really regretted the decision to not drug his partner’s tea. Life would be much easier if he had.

He inhaled sharply as Jim’s lithe fingers danced about his middle, tickling and trying to draw a reaction. It took all of his concentration not to burst into laughter, for John Watson was unfortunately ticklish. Laughter would only spur Jim on even farther. The consulting criminal rolled off John and stared at the ceiling. “Finding Nemo.”

“Alright,” John said agreeably. He peeled himself out from underneath the duvet, teeth beginning to chatter as soon as the chilled air hit his bare skin. Jim had been throwing off enough heat under the covers that both men were simply dressed in their boxers, and the cold air was a rather unpleasant shock. Shivering, he stumbled his way towards their shabby DVD player and grabbed the case next to it.

“Faster,” Jim sing-songed from the bed. “You’re awfully unprotected, Johnny boy.” John turned around as soon as the DVD player closed and rolled his eyes deliberately.

“I would be more scared if you weren’t afraid to leave the bed,” he muttered.

“I don’t have to leave the bed to get to the gun in the nightstand,” Jim sang. He was grinning wickedly when John spun around, and the doctor narrowed his eyes. “Hurry up.”

John pushed play on the DVD player harder than he should have, setting it back a centimetre or two, and he rushed to pounce on the duvet before Jim could finish crawling out from underneath it. “You are not messing with my gun,” he said shortly, ignoring the glittering in Jim’s eyes or the way he was squirming underneath John’s grasp.

“Please?” Jim bit his lip. Pleaded. Batted his eyes.

“You’re sick,” John said firmly. Jim scowled and flopped back on the bed.

“I’m going to kill you in the morning,” the consulting criminal said. He sounded half-hearted, more petulant than anything, and his attention was soon drawn by the movie starting.

“Alright,” John said amicably.

Jim growled at him, waiting for John to lay down before he draped himself back over the other man. “I mean it. I’m going to shoot your head off.”

“Absolutely.” John slipped an arm around Jim’s waist, pulled him closer. Jim nipped at John’s neck, proving he was vicious and threatening, before he curled closer and closed his eyes. John stroked a hand up and down Jim’s back, providing comfort, as he listened to the consulting criminal’s constant discussion of the stupidity involved with Finding Nemo and all of its related stupidity. It was endearing, in a way, how much Jim tried to convince John that he hated that movie.

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Jim ordered, pinching John’s stomach. “You’re distracting me.”

John smiled, kissed Jim on the head, and then allowed himself to drift off, Finding Nemo playing softly in the background.

_Just keep swimming, just keep swimming._

His boyfriend was never boring.


	3. Pieces of the Puzzle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this prompt: Could you write a piece set after the Fall. Where John doesn't believe Sherlock's dead and turns to murder in order to lure him back to London? His intention being to create a puzzle that Sherlock won't be able to resist. And his victims are people who he thinks doubted/failed Sherlock (Anderson, Sally, Greg, reporters, etc.). Any maybe the prompt covers Sherlock working it out/returning and trying to prevent John from claiming any more victims?
> 
> More like implied Johniarty? Kind of?

It had been amusing, at first. The first victim had been Anderson. Car crash, no foul play suspected. Both he and his wife had died. A tragedy. Mycroft had kept him updated on events in London. Knew that Sherlock would find that bit of information relevant. Maybe not useful, but something he needed to keep an eye on. Then Sally had been killed, off-duty, in a mugging. Suspicious, but not unduly so. She had enemies, like all law enforcement. People who took offense at her having been integral in their capture.

It wasn’t often, once every three, six months, but Sherlock watched as certain players fell to pieces. Kitty Riley, drowned in a pool. The courtroom clerk, knifed in a back alley on the way home from the market. Reporters dropped like flies. There was a pattern. A puzzle. Interspersed with just enough time and distance that people couldn’t make the connection.

A homeless man, one of Sherlock’s network, was indicted for Donovan’s murder. There had been such desperation to arrest someone, anyone, and they had found a likely victim. But it was wrong, it was all wrong. Nothing they were claiming made any sense. Billy Wiggins had nothing to prove, no vendetta against any of the dead. The logical suspect was Sherlock, of course, but he was dead.

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the table. Something was wrong. He dialed the most-hated number on his mobile. “Mycroft? I’m going back to London.”

-

Lestrade was the next logical target, and for days, Sherlock followed him, establishing his routine. His irregular routine. That was good, Sherlock knew. Made it harder to catch the DI somewhere where his death wouldn’t be noticed. Then one night, after wrapping up a crime scene, Lestrade had elected to find his own way back to the office. He needed to clear his head, he said. Stupid, Sherlock thought. It was only a year after Sally’s death. The killer was still out there.

The DI knew all the shortcuts, ducked through one alley then another, Sherlock following silently. Then Lestrade stopped, sighed, and turned. “I know you’re following me,” he called out.

Sherlock was impressed, and made to step forward - then he stopped. Someone stepped out from the shadows, someone Sherlock would have never expected. No, oh no no. No. “Hello,” John said politely, a smile on his face. “Long time no see, Greg.”

“John.” Lestrade’s face creased in a confused smile. “What are you doing here?”

It was then that Sherlock saw the syringe in John’s hand, and remembered he was actually supposed to be doing something. “John, don’t.” He stepped forward, out of the shadows, his coat collar high.

“Sherlock.” John’s smile widened. “I knew you would come back. I knew you were alive.”

“How did you figure it out?” Sherlock asked, edging forward. Lestrade was staring at him, was disoriented, not running away. Stupid.

John shrugged. “Things just weren’t adding up. The fall, the blood - something just didn’t look quite right.” He sighed. “You needed to come back.”

“Lestrade, I suggest that you leave. My brother has a car idling just outside of this alley. Get inside and he will take you to the Yard.” Sherlock looked at the DI, willed him to just do what he asked, for once. Lestrade cast one lingering, confused glance at John before he nodded and left.

“That wasn’t very nice,” John said, looking at Sherlock reproachfully.

“I’m back,” Sherlock pointed out. “You can spare him. You brought me home.”

John sighed. “I suppose.”

Sherlock studied him for a moment. Something had changed. Everything had changed. It was like Sherlock’s death had tipped John over the edge, cracked something fundamental in him that was broken for good. Sherlock swallowed. It was his fault, it had to be his fault. If he had stayed, this would not have happened. “I did it for you,” John said offhandedly. “They failed you. They doubted you.”

“John, murder is not the answer.” Sherlock knew. It was a solution, but not the optimal one.

John cocked an eyebrow. “Says the high functioning sociopath.”

Sherlock conceded the point, but really, it still didn’t make sense. “Why?” It was such a simple question, but could answer so much. Sherlock’s mouth was suddenly dry as the smile curved differently. Became darker. Familiar. No.

“I did have some help,” John mused. “A little push. Told me if I did it, you would come home.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. No. There was the soft crunch of foot-falls. A faint rustle of cloth. Then a very familiar person stepped out of the shadows, stood next to John. John, who moved closer, in the innate, comfortable way one moved to orbit around the people they cared for. Moriarty’s face crinkled into a smile. “Did you miss me?”


End file.
